


the last time that you touched me

by silvergalaxy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, Bottom Harry, Draco loves Harry's hair, Established Relationship, HP: EWE, Harry loves Draco's hands in his hair, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Non-Explicit Sex, Scheming, Top Draco
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 12:55:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13008231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silvergalaxy/pseuds/silvergalaxy
Summary: What do you do when your boyfriend refuses to admit that his snarky comments about your hair are just a cover up so that you don't find out how much he actually loves it?Harry Potter has a plan.It doesn't work out quite as hoped.





	the last time that you touched me

**Author's Note:**

> I have a statistics final tomorrow! I wrote this instead.

It’s funny, Harry thinks, that someone who claims to despise his hair as much as Draco does, would touch it so often.

He’s always touching it - fixing an unruly lock behind Harry’s ear, or running his fingers over Harry’s scalp as they lie together at night. Even when they’re out together in public, Draco will rest his warm hand at the base of Harry’s neck and quietly play with the tufts of black hair that Harry’s never been able to tame.

He does it almost subconsciously, Harry thinks, because Draco only has snarky comments about his hair, which is at odds to the gentle way he weaves his fingers through it, thoughtful and soothing, oblivious while Harry struggles to maintain composure.

“Atrocious,” he always says, when Harry enters their kitchen in the morning, barefoot and hair rumpled with sleep.

“Oh, honestly, Potter - _get_ a comb, would you?” Was the snotty remark Harry received last month as they were about to Floo to some Ministry fundraiser, and Harry walked up to their fireplace with a few too many strands of hair not where they belonged.

“I am at a loss for words, truly, darling,” Draco had intoned, exasperated, as Harry rushed into the Leaky, nearly twenty minutes late, dirt crusted in his hair from a mishap at work that had involved an altercation between a Muggle-born gardener and her suspicious Muggle neighbour.

And yet, Harry found himself in the same sort of situations, despite these comments from Draco:

 

In the kitchen, pushed up against the counter, Draco’s arm around his waist and hand in his hair.

 

In front of the fireplace, reeling just a little from a sweet kiss on his chapped lips while Draco fusses patiently behind him, apparently trying to accomplish the impossible and conquer Harry Potter’s hair.

 

At the pub, laughing with his friends with Draco at his side, smiling and content enough with being seen with the likes of Harry, even speckled with mud, that his fingers take up their usual place at his nape, and stay there in a steadiness that Harry has almost come to expect.

 

He hates it all.

Well, sort of.

He hates it in the way that he can’t get enough, and that he doesn’t want it to stop. He hates it in the way that when Draco eventually does let go, he feels the absence like an ache, which is downright ridiculous, but he can’t quell the feeling. He hates it in the way that he can’t voice to Draco how much he _doesn’t_ hate it without choking on his own words and stuttering something else to distract from what he nearly admitted. More than anything, he hates it in the way that Draco refuses to acknowledge that he likes it, too.

So, he hatches a plan.

_____

They’re at the Leaky - again, with their friends - again, and Harry is comfortable and warm in their booth with one of his thighs pressed tightly against Draco’s, and a pint in his hand.

Dean is trying to relay a story to them over Seamus’ raucous laughter, while Luna smiles on indulgently and Pansy, Ron, and Hermione argue in the other corner about a new law that’s just been passed - something to do with Apparition. Harry’s making an attempt to listen to Dean, but he’s only catching every couple of words. Draco huffs next to him, amused. Harry turns to him, tilting his head and offering a small, close mouthed smile. Draco’s eyes are perpetually shiny when he looks at Harry. That’s what Ron told him, anyways, with a look on his face that almost would’ve made his disgust believable had Harry not been used to Ron’s gruff way of displaying happiness when it came to Harry and his lovelife with Malfoy.

“What?” Harry murmurs, but they’re close enough that Draco can still hear him over the bickering floating around their table. “Can you hear what they’re saying? Tell me,” he prompts, poking Draco in the side where he knows Draco will find it ticklish.

“Stop,” Draco answers, just as quietly, turning his head so that Harry can’t see the way his mouth tugs up in response. And then he turns back, a slight flush on his cheeks, that Harry loves. He’s not sure if it’s from the firewhisky or him - but. He loves it all the same.

They look at each other for a moment, unmoving, and then Draco raises his arm, fits his palm against the base of Harry’s neck, and gives a gentle squeeze. His fingers are just starting to reach up and tangle themselves in Harry’s curls when Harry ducks away.

“You stop,” he says back, playfully. Draco freezes, looking caught out. His - ahem - fondness for Harry’s hair is almost an unspoken secret between them. Harry knows Draco loves it, Merlin, of course he knows, it’s so obvious. But, Harry’s not so sure that Draco knows that _he_ knows. He’s unintentionally obtuse like that, especially when he’s in denial.

“Fine,” Draco says, haughtily, and Harry decides right then and there that he’s not going to let Draco touch his hair until he tells Harry what he really thinks of it, instead of the usual light barbs he throws out, followed by kisses and delicate fingers sweeping through his fringe.

_____

Later that night, when they’re both a bit tipsy and curled up in bed, Harry shuffles until he and Draco are pressed up against against one another, chest to chest, so that if Harry stays still, he can convince himself that he can feel Draco’s heart thudding against his own. He presses a soft kiss to Draco’s collarbone, and hardly complains when Draco’s cold feet push themselves between his calves.

He’s about to drift off when he feels the soft brush of fingertips across his temple.

He shakes his head, humming in what he hopes Draco takes as discontent. He hears an intake of breath, and Draco’s hand settles on his hip instead.

Pleased, Harry fights down a triumphant grin. He’ll have Draco confessing his undying love for Harry’s mess of curls in no time. There’s no way Draco will last long.

_____

Harry lays in bed for hours that night, unable to fall asleep without the unfaltering comfort of Draco’s fingertips cradling his head.

_____

It’s a Friday, and Harry is absolutely exhausted when he Apparates into their mudroom, shucking off his shoes and hanging his outer robes on the hook next to the door. Draco is already home, relaxing on the sofa with a thick Healer’s diagnostic manual resting on his lap. He looks up briefly when Harry noisily enters the room by way of banging into a lamp.

“Hey, babe,” Harry says, crossing the room in a few strides and flopping dramatically onto the cushion next to Draco.

“Hello,” Draco says, reaching over and resting his hand on Harry’s right knee. “Tired?”

“Very,” says Harry, tilting sideways and pushing Draco’s book away so that he can rest his head on his boyfriend’s lap.

“Hmm,” Draco replies, moving his hand so that it’s pushing at the cotton of Harry’s undershirt, grazing the curve of his waist. The fire is crackling away across the room, emitting a comforting glow that makes Harry eager to close his eyes and drift off. It’s warm, especially compared to the frigid cold of December, and this, paired with the smell of food cooking in the kitchen provides Harry with a sense of bliss.

He keeps waiting for Draco’s hand to follow it’s usual pathway, up over his chest, across his shoulder blades, into the nest of curls on the back of his head. It doesn’t come, and Harry eventually pushes himself up, frustrated. Draco’s hand twitches wantonly, eyes darting to Harry’s ruffled hair.

Draco had better cave soon, Harry thinks, disgruntled, because all he wants right now is Draco’s fingers twisting through his hair and a nice, long snog.

He thinks finally hearing Draco wax poetic about the unstately mess atop his head will make the wait worth it.

_____

“Are you and Draco fighting?” Hermione asks him quietly, a few days later at Rose’s birthday party. Draco’s just got up to go to the loo, leaving Harry sitting alone on the couch, treacle tart in hand.

“No,” Harry says, offended. “Why’d you ask?”

Hermione looks around, as if ensuring that no one is listening to them. “He looks … he looks a bit. As though he’s holding off. I mean, Harry,” she says, laughing a little. “He’s barely touched you, and that’s not like you two, is it?”

“Does he?” Harry says, pleased with confirmation of this new development. “Brilliant, it’s working. Listen, it’s stupid so I’m not going to try and explain it, but don’t worry about it.”

Hermione looks even more confused, and she shoots Harry a reproachful glance as Draco returns to the sofa, lifting his hand towards Harry’s head before remembering himself and promptly dropping it, as though he’s burned himself.

Not much longer, now.

_____

 

Harry’s been sleeping downright terribly as of late, and of course it’s of his own doing. If Draco would just man up and admit that there’s nowhere he’d rather his fingers be than playing with Harry’s hair, things would be a hell of a lot easier.

Instead, as Harry should have expected, Draco is unwaveringly stubborn and absolutely refuses to acknowledge such a desire, and so they are both left equally unsatisfied, though Harry is beginning to believe that he’s suffering from more adverse effects than Draco himself, which is decidedly not how he was hoping his plan to unfold.

He hadn’t realized just how much he genuinely expected and looked forward to having Draco play with his hair. Now he’s just left with the snarky comments, and none of the affectionate touching.

“Did you even look in the mirror this morning?” Draco asks, and it stings without the subsequent comfort of his hands.

“Yes,” Harry snarls, hurt.

He wants Draco’s hands back.

_____

It’s almost as if Draco is trying to get rid of any evidence that he’s ever laid a remotely kind hand on Harry’s hair by both completely avoiding touching it, and providing a daily jab at the expense of Harry’s curls.

Even during sex, when normally he’d have it tangled between his fingers, Draco uses his free hand to trail across Harry’s stomach, his chest, his _cock_ , while the other holds Harry steady as he balances himself on Draco’s lap while Draco moves inside him. And, Merlin, it’s _so_ good, but even as he comes with a moan and a shudder, the only thing that’s missing is Draco’s hand in his hair.

Afterwards, Draco says unconvincingly, “Your hair looks appalling.”

_____

Harry does everything he can think of to speed up the plan’s progress.

He shows up to the Leaky with a leaf in his hair. He doesn’t comb it for three days. He runs his _own_ fingers through it, letting the curls bounce back into a state of disarray.

Nothing seems to be working, and Harry continues to fall asleep at night with a longing for the return of the gentle strokes Draco would usually lavish him with at night, and a plea on the tip of his tongue.

Draco looks more pained as the days go on, white knuckled as he tries to not let Harry see how much it bothers him not to be touching his hair.

Harry is _not_ going to be the one to break first.

_____

Harry is the one who breaks first.

It’s hardly his fault, is it? Draco _always_ comforts him while he’s sick, undeterred by Harry’s embarrassed imploring to just leave him alone - he doesn’t want Draco to watch him vomit. His presence had caused more distress initially than relief, but over the past few years it’s been something Harry’s become accustomed to. Of course, Harry doesn’t mind doing it for Draco while Draco’s sick, but it’s something that Draco’s used to having from his parents, and therefore had little complaints about. For Harry, it had been new and confusing to have someone care about him enough to _want_ to be there when he’s ill and miserable.

He’s been feeling _off_ since lunch-time. Ron had brought him to a new restaurant, just a few blocks away from the Ministry. He’d eaten - something. The menu wasn’t in English, so they’d ordered at the waiter’s recommendation. Harry wishes Hermione still had that damn Time-Turner so he could stop himself from going in the first place. If he hadn’t gone, then he wouldn’t be kneeling on the cold floor, gagging into the toilet as he had been for the past thirty minutes.

He hears the telltale whoosh of the Floo, and a sliver of bright green light illuminates the room briefly from the slit under the door.

“Harry?” he hears, muffled through the door.

He opens his mouth to reply, and ends up retching once again. He hears footsteps getting closer, and stays where he is although the door is locked.

“ _Alohamora_ ,” Draco incants aloud, which Harry suspects is more for his benefit so he’ll know that Draco’s coming in, as he knows Draco rarely uses verbal magic for such simplistic spells. The door clicks open softly, and Draco is standing in the door, looking harried, work robes still on. He must’ve came straight from St. Mungo’s, Harry thinks distractedly.

“You’re not well,” he says, voice mild.

“No,” Harry sighs, and promptly vomits again. When he’s done, he rests his forehead on the cold rim of the toilet, trying to ignore how unsanitary it is. He’s just too exhausted to hold his head up for any longer.

“Don’t do that, idiot,” Draco admonishes, but makes no move to stop him, only lowers himself onto the floor so that he’s kneeling next to Harry. Harry rolls his head so that he’s facing Draco, and looks him directly in his eyes. He’s drained, not only from being sick, but from waiting for nearly two weeks for Draco to disclose his undying love for Harry’s hair so that everything could go back to normal.

Draco looks incredibly handsome from this angle, Harry notices. Of course, he looks handsome from every angle, he supposes, but there’s something about the way the soft light is falling across his features that makes him absolutely striking. Harry loves him, so much.

“Draco,” he says quietly, and he’s not even sure his lips have moved until Draco shuffles closer on his knees, face open and eyes caring.

“Harry?” he prompts, his knees now touching Harry’s side.

“If you don’t put your stupid hand in my hair, I’m gonna cry,” Harry says tensely, hoping the desperate look in his eyes will convey how much he truly means it.

“Oh,” Draco breathes, surprised. “Of course, I - of course.”

His hand flies upwards almost immediately, fingers burying themselves in the tousled curls on the back of Harry’s head. Moments later, his other hand wiggles underneath Harry’s cheek, lifting his head up and away from the toilet until Harry has to squirm backwards so he’s sitting up properly.

Harry sighs, letting his head go weightless so that the only thing holding him upright are Draco’s steady hands. His eyes flutter closed, and Draco’s fingers move in soothing circles against his scalp.

“I thought you didn’t like this,” Draco says in a whisper, and Harry can feel his breath breeze past his flushed cheek.

“You cannot be _that_ clueless,” Harry moans, squeezing his eyes closed more tightly before forcing them open to look at his impossibly dumb boyfriend.

“What?” Draco asks, perplexed. “Then why the hell did you make me stop?” his fingers still, and Harry brings his own hand up to spur Draco’s back into action. He obliges instantly.

“Because,” Harry says, “You were pretending that you don’t like it as much as I do.”

Draco looks properly chastised. “Well, I think I may enjoy it a considerable amount more than you, Potter. _I’m_ not the one who put a stop to it, now was I?”

“Only because I wanted to hear you say it,” Harry counters, leaning forward and nuzzling his face into the crook of Draco’s neck. “You can’t imagine how many times I’ve stopped myself from just grabbing your hand and shoving it onto my head.”

He feels Draco’s chest shake as he laughs. “I can assure you, I most definitely can.”

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed reading this silly piece as much as I liked writing it. This is the first HPDM fic i've written despite being in the fandom ... forever. 
> 
> Come visit me on [tumblr](http://quaintpotter.tumblr.com) if you're so inclined!


End file.
